[Lost] Whiskey memories

[akonken.livejournal.com]

Witte is dead. My mother is dead. I don't know if she really loved me. I don't know why she would. She lied about loving other people. I don't know how much it should matter. I don't know how much it does matter.

The smoky taste of whiskey brought back the memory. Witte drank whiskey. Rose drank whiskey when she mourned Witte. When she mourned.

I hurt so much. I'm angry at the world. But most of all I'm angry at him because he won't fight me. He won't hate me. Even when I rebelliously break my promise right in front of his eyes, he won't punish me. I will have to punish myself.

His lips on hers brought her back to the present with a start. It's not the first time he kissed her tonight. She hadn't stopped him once. She knew why she was there. She knew he wanted her.

She was there to be desired. She was there to fulfill desire.

The walk to his home is long. I can't walk easily; the world tilts and and spins. My senses are against me, but at least the pain has been replaced by the burning numbness the whiskey brings. I'm grateful for the numbness. I have found my punishment. I have found what sacrifice I will give her memory. I know what valuable part of myself needs to go.

This time the kiss didn't stop. Paper whispered to the floor as he swept the desk's contents away to clear room for her. For them. She wasn't crying anymore. She was there to fulfill desire. She would do this. She would do this one thing right. Spring was for desire. She was for Spring. She was for desire.

There are so many stars. I stare at them as they dance. Right now I wish he still hated me. Right now I want to hurt. I drop my gaze to his face. I smile because he makes me smile. I smile because I'm about to give him what he wants. I take a deep breath and say it before I change my mind:

"Can we...have sex?"

He was finished. The tears started again, and she couldn't stop them. Desire fulfilled, what was that? Was it happiness? She didn't know.

He's shy in the morning. I love his smile. I love him. I feel better somehow. I feel healed, not punished. I make breakfast.

She splashed cold water on her face, sobering herself. It was a long drive home.

He didn't want her to go home. He wanted her to stay. He wanted her to be okay.

She couldn't do both.

The next time is sweeter. I know what to expect. I know what to do. It's not a sacrifice. I understand why it's called "making love." It feels like love.

She wasn't sure how long they were sitting there when he asked her the question she didn't want anyone to ask:

"What do you want?"

She'd avoided saying it until now. She knew it would upset people if they thought she knew. She knew they didn't want her to know. They didn't want to know themselves.

But he'd asked, and she couldn't avoid the answer anymore:

"What I want doesn't matter."